


The Hobbit, the Poet, and the King

by Anonymous



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, mostly follows the books, the third will be clear eventually, two of the title characters should be pretty obvious, with a bit of the movie!dwarves character development thrown in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The road goes ever on and on, and I must follow if I can.None of them expected the road to lead them back to the beginning, but just because the road is longer than expected does not mean they will not walk it and try to blaze a better path.





	1. Down from the Door where it Began

Thorin’s heart dies in blood and fire and screaming. The corpses of his nephews lie behind him in the mud, trampled and bloody and broken, and Thorin deserves a death a thousand times more painful than this for how he has failed them. The first sword to pierce his stomach sears a path of flames through his insides, charring his organs to ashes to match his broken heart. He is almost glad to die this way, with no time to stop and think; no time to remember the sound of Kili’s head separating from his body, or the way Fili screamed as he died, charging the orc that killed Kili and oblivious to the orc putting a knife through his back till his rage turned to sudden gurgling surprise, feet carrying him a few steps further before he fell.

The end of the battle catches Thorin by surprise. There is no sudden hush that falls, no immediate cessation of sound and horror to mark the dwarven victory. If it even can be called victory, with Fili and Kili dead and Thorin dying in the dirt. Instead of cheers there are groans and screams and tears of the dying. A few members of the company yet stand around him, just as shocked by the battle’s end as Thorin. Dwalin drops crying to his knees besides Fili and Kili’s bodies, and Gloin stands over Thorin, eyes still wild and ax still raised against enemies that no longer come. The ground is full of corpses, elves and dwarves and men and orcs all alike for once.

All dead.

He does not know how he makes it off the field. There is wetness in his eyes and hands on under his arms and Fili’s scream still ringing in his ears. The wounded fill the camp, spilling out of tents into the dirt, already halfway to buried though they yet breathe. It smells just like the battlefield, and Dwalin only barely misses getting his boots covered in bloody vomit. Thorin comes back to himself alone in a tent that could hold a dozen, on a bed so soft he wonders if he has already died. Surely he does not deserve comfort in his death. But no, Oin ducks in seconds later to fuss over him, washing grime from Thorin’s face with tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Where is Bilbo?” Thorin asks.

The hobbit was a braver creature than Thorin ever gave him credit for. He deserved better than to die on a filthy battlefield. Deserved better than to be stolen away from his comfortable home on another’s quest, only to be served the violence and rage of a mad king in return for all that he had done and sacrificed. Oin’s silence stretches in the too small tent, filing the blood soaked air with more meaning than any words. Still, he asks again, “Where is the hobbit?”

“No one has seen Mr. Baggins,” Oin says to the cloth wall. Thorin’s fists would clench, had he still the strength for such things. In a field of corpses, one small hobbit might never be found.

“Find him,” he commands, and then he drifts again.

A commotion outside the tent some hours later draws him unwillingly back from the brink of his own oblivion. He is grateful that he lingered, when his eyes manage to focus on Bilbo’s face. Such a beloved face, understood too late. He should have been luckier than any king of old to have grown old with such a beautiful and gentle and loyal creature as Bilbo Baggins by his side. It is much more fitting that he should die instead. He is lucky enough to see Bilbo one more time. That Bilbo cares enough to cry for him as they say their goodbyes is beyond anything Thorin deserves already.

Even so, he thinks as his eyes close one last time, he would have liked to stay.

It is quite the shock when he wakes up.

He did not expect the halls of waiting to look quite so much like his old bedroom in Ered Luin.

o0o

Bilbo drifts away some 80 years after Thorin’s death. He rocks with the gentle motions of the ship to the Undying Lands, his mind wandering further and further until his weary soul slips right from his too-thin body.

It is hardly surprising therefore that Bilbo rather believes he must be dead when he wakes up. His body is young and hale and just a bit too fat for traveling, and Bag End shines bright and sunny and beautiful outside his door.

The Shire is utterly vibrant and remarkably _alive_ for the afterlife when Bilbo pokes his head outside. Hamfast waves to him as he walks down the lane, and Bilbo waves back, content for now with being left alone to adjust before he must interact with any of the old friends who died years before him while his own body was unnaturally preserved. The sun glows brighter than it has in years, and the air is clearer; or perhaps it is simply that his eyes are no longer hazy from age, his skin no longer paper thin and frail.

Several days pass inside Bag End before Bilbo feels up to venturing outside. He stumbles through a haze of dreams and memories the first night, drawing young strong hands along smooth walls papered over with maps of far off lands and portraits of generations of Baggins. He finds a bit of Old Toby in the pantry, and he smokes on his front stoop, unwilling still to venture too far afield. The pantry also holds a variety of food, stocked as only a Hobbit can stock a pantry, and Bilbo delights when his hands no longer shake too much to make his favorite dishes. As much as he loved the elves of Imladris, they were not always very good at making meals hearty enough for a Hobbit. Even an old, mad Hobbit with a tendency towards adventures still wants second breakfast when he is home.

And then on the third day of his well-deserved afterlife, everything falls apart.

He is sitting out on his porch again, blowing smoke rings and enjoying the sunshine on his face, when a familiar gray-cloaked figure appears over a rise on the path. Bilbo hardly notices when his pipe drops from suddenly nerveless fingers, luckily spilling ash onto the gravel walkway rather than setting his garden alight. A very bad feeling sneaks in underneath his ribs as the figure grows closer. Gandalf has no business visiting the Hobbit afterlife, and it has been many years since he was still the Grey.

At least the Tookish side of him, long quelled by creaky joints and a wandering mind, is happy. It seems he isn’t quite done with adventures after all.


	2. Turn at Last to Home Afar

As soon as Gandalf vanished behind the hill, Bilbo turned and rushed into his home, slamming the door behind him. He wasn’t in the afterlife. He was in the past. If not for his lifetime of adventures to prepare him for unexpected happenings, he’d sure he would think he’d gone mad. Even so, he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t mad. Mad Baggins, he was called for years, and perhaps he finally cracked like an egg, went round the bend, the product of a too old mind too lost in dreaming to appreciate the waking world.

 

If that was the case, it had been happening ever since he woke up in Bag End. Debating the reality of his senses with himself would get him nowhere. After a healthy cup of tea or three and a quick scuttle out the door to retrieve his pipe from the front porch, Bilbo got down to the business of living in the life he appeared to have been granted a second shot at. There would be a party of dwarves coming to his home, looking for a burglar to help them reclaim their mountain.

 

Thorin would be coming to his home, gruff and distant and cold as the stars, with no love to spare on a fat little hobbit who couldn’t even hear about a dragon without fainting.

 

Because Bilbo _was_ a hobbit, no matter how odd of one, the most pressingly immediate concern was food. Twelve dwarves, while no party of hobbits, still did a great deal of eating after a trek from the Blue Mountains to Bag End. The first time around, they cleaned out his whole pantry and then some. Bilbo was halfway out the door, hat on his head and walking stick in his hand, when he paused. The trip would take months at least, quite likely longer, and his survival this time around was hardly guaranteed, even if he didn’t add on an extra quest at the end.

 

Any food left in his pantry when he left would rot for sure.

 

“Bilbo Baggins,” he muttered to himself, “when will you learn to think more than five seconds ahead of your feet?” He could give them a few nicer things than his day to day staples, but a cleared out pantry was a blessing in disguise, and not one to be tossed away like a poorly thrown conkers stone. A more subdued Bilbo therefore showed up to the marketplace some hours later, this time with a carefully thought out shopping list in hand.

 

“Throwing a party, Mister Baggins?” the butcher asked, eyes flitting to the bags already held in one arm as he picked out a large ham for tomorrow’s dinner, and several pounds of thick sliced bacon for breakfast the next morning. Bilbo threw her a bright smile with his gold.

 

“A few old friends are stopping by tomorrow, and I was hoping to make them something nicer than tea cakes and travel bread.”

 

The butcher quirked a brow at him, but smiled. “I hope it’s a wonderful party,” she said. “You stay far too cooped up in that hill of yours, Mister Baggins. Everyone needs a bit of company sometimes.”

 

He was almost too flustered to thank her, though his manners kicked in at the last moment before his feet carried him out the door, loaded down with shopping bags and fully ready to return to his hill. The butcher was not the first to treat him strangely during his shopping. It rankled, being treated like Respectable Mister Bilbo Baggins, rather than Mad Baggins by the citizens of Hobbiton. Respectable fit him worse than one of Elrond’s robes. Time may have run backwards for reasons unknown, but Bilbo’s respectability had not come back with his youth.

  
By the time he made it home with his last set of groceries, huffing and puffing in a body far too used to comfortable laziness, the sun was sinking towards the horizon, glazing the hills and valleys of the Shire in alternating strips of light and shadow. After tomorrow, he may never see it again.

 

Cooking neatly took him mind off things for the rest of the evening, as he prepared a nice honeyed ham, Bofur’s favorite, and put together several different pies for the next day that just needed to be popped in the oven. Everything else could be finished in the morning. He dropped into bed with moonlight casting long shadows across his floor, and fell asleep to visions of a lonely dragon atop a lonely mountain haunting his dreams.

 

oOo

 

The knock at the door startled Bilbo into dropping the last pie, a perfectly done cheese and potato pie that had just come out of the oven, and now lay in pieces on his nice clean floor. “Just a minute!” he cried at the second knock, nearly braining himself on a cabinet as he scrambled to scoop ruined bits of pie into the trash. “I’m coming, hold your horses!” he called, scrubbing a rag over the last remnants, tossing it in the sink, and dashing into the hallway as yet another burst of knocking sounded against his poor door.

 

He yanked the door open, only to be met with a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks. A whole group of dwarves stood on his doorstep, Gandalf looming large in the background and at the front, standing tall as proud as ever: Thorin Oakenshield.

 

Perhaps, with Bilbo agreeing right away to hear out Gandalf’s mad ideas about adventuring, the old Wizard hadn’t felt it necessary to trick Bilbo into allowing a bunch of rowdy dwarves into his home with the silly nonsense of sending the first few along in ones and twos. Regardless, he had not been prepared to see them all so suddenly all at once. He was mean to have time to get used to them, with Dwalin first, and Balin who died in Moria, and Fili and Kili who he never got to say goodbye to, and only Thorin at the end of the entire ridiculous parade.

 

He was not prepared to see Thorin first, eighty years too far away and right there in front of him, staring at him. Staring at him in increasing concern, as Bilbo stood dumbly at the door without inviting any of them in.

 

Perhaps it is just that Bilbo was an old hobbit now, who had been on a number of adventures and seen a great deal more of the world than his fifty year old self, but Thorin looked less majestic than he did the first time around. There was discomfort in the small shifts to his posture and the tight corners of his mouth, and Bilbo was still standing around staring at him in the doorway like a simpleton.

 

“Come in, come in,” he squeaked a second too late, finally remembering his manners. From the way Gandalf’s mouth twitched beneath his beard, Bilbo suspected he believed that he has surprised his little hobbit friend. Hmph. Bloody wizard had no idea.

 

The dwarves trooped inside, a veritable maelstrom of dusty cloaks and boots leaving muddy footprints on his floor straight towards the smell of food, but Bilbo had eyes only for Thorin holding back in the entryway. His gaze was dark and heavy on Bilbo; Bilbo did his best not to squirm.

 

“Bilbo Baggins, may I present to you the leader of the present company, Thorin Oakenshield.”

 

Gandalf’s voice broke the thick silence between hobbit and dwarf. Both looked at Gandalf, craning their necks towards his annoyingly tall face, and a spell was broken. Thorin whirled almost immediately, his heavy fur cloak billowing around him, and stomped to the table to join his fellows. Bilbo glanced longingly at his old friend, but could not join right away. He had a part to play, if he did not want Gandalf’s immediate suspicion.

 

“What on earth have you brought into my home, Gandalf?” he said, pleased at the way his voice grew shrill at the end. “Just because I was curious about your adventure does not mean I agreed to host a whole pack of dwarves! Why, they’ll eating me right out of house and home! I am a hobbit and proud to be one, and of course I am happy to entertain and made food in expectation of your travel weary friends, but thank goodness I made extra just in case or I would have been branded the worst host in all the Shire five minutes in! Next time at least do tell me when I’ll be expected to entertain over a dozen of ravenous dwarves, with a bit _more_ than a single days notice, if you please!”

 

Gandalf laughed at him, just as Bilbo suspected he would. Bloody infuriating wizards, choosing the most ridiculous way to go about starting an adventure. He wondered if it really was just a wizard thing, or if Gandalf was unique even among his own kind.

 

Bilbo ate a great deal of food that evening to cover up his nerves at the situation. Thorin ate much less, toying with his food more than eating. Last time Bilbo didn’t notice much beyond the mess and pandemonium brought by the dwarves to his peaceful home, but in this second chance, he had a hard time keeping his eyes off the homeless king. Next to Thorin, Fili and Kili played with their food and ate in equal measure, joyful rather than grumpy like their ridiculous uncle. The rest of the dwarves joked and yelled and threw food at each other, but Thorin and Bilbo formed two quiet points in the sea of chaos.

 

When the dwarves finally retreated to the sitting room after food and washing up and begin the song of their quest, Bilbo’s heart swelled with memory. His blood sparked hot and heavy in his veins, the memory of adventure and gold swimming up from deep places. After the song, he barely remembered to ask what the quest was about. Dragon fire filled his vision briefly - a burning town and an old mouldering city beneath a mountain that he could never bring himself to return to, in all the long years of his life. Dale was as far as he ever got before his feet grew roots and his heart slowed to a thundering funeral march in his breast. Now he would return to it all in the days of it’s greatest ruin, before its reclamation and rebuilding. Before it held the tombs of Thorin and his only heirs.

 

Thorin snorted at his questions. “We are going to reclaim our home and our gold from a dragon, as you might have noticed if you’d listened to the song,” he said, unusually curt. Bilbo blinked.

 

Balin gave Thorin a strange look before filling in the gaps for Bilbo. “Aye, lad,” he said, leaning foward and taking the pipe from his mouth, “As our song said, we once lived in a mountain called Erebor, where we mined deep and built a great city in her bones. Many of us lived there, and Thorin’s grandfather Thror ruled as king, until the day Smaug came, drawn by our wealth, to destroy all that we had built. Smaug the Destroyer came upon us from the North, the last of the great dragons, bringing with him fire and death to all who did not flee in time. We have been wanderers ever since, made vagabonds and petty smiths for survival, but finally the tides of change are turning in our favor. The Wizard has a map and a key that will get us into our home, and with the Arkenstone of our people Thorin can lay claim to the loyalty of our kin from the Iron hills, and muster an army to defeat the Wyrm who defiles our halls with his greed and corruption. We seek to reclaim nothing more and nothing less than our home, to give our people back a place where they can live in pride and plenty.”

 

It was a much better explanation than Bilbo had gotten the first time around. He signed the contract of course, and brought bedding for the dwarves so they did not have to sleep in their cloaks on his couches and the floor.

 

The next day, he woke early, unsettled worries and dreams of the quest managing to get him up before the sun. As he swung young legs out of bed, thoughts still sluggish from sleep, he took a moment to fully appreciate the lack of aches in his joints and his cataracts clouding his eyes. His limbs were sore from all the walking and cooking he’d done the previous two days, of course, and eyes clouded from the lack of sleep he’d managed to get, but by the time the quest finished, assuming he was not dead or mangled beyond healing, he was going to be fit as a fiddle again.

 

This time around, he got to witness this time the full force of dwarven breakfast cooking as he stumbled out of his room into full-fledged chaos, and though he had seen it before, he was still amazed at how many dirty dishes they generated. “Bilbo!” Bombur called from next to the stove, “How many eggs do you want? The bacon’s running a bit low, but you’re just in time for my famous scrambled eggs!”

 

“Famous to who, exactly?” Bofur asked from next to him where he was pouring tea into a chipped old mug he must have dug out from the very back of Bilbo’s cupboards.

 

“Here you go, lad,” he said, handing the cup to Bilbo, who stared at the tea in confusion. “Thorin was just telling me to wake you up. Since you’ve signed the contract, you’re officially one of us till the quest is done.”

 

“Should have run when you had the chance,” Nori says, brushing past Bilbo with a yawn to snag the last piece of bacon off the table. “Now yor schtuck wif us.” Bilbo shook his head fondly at Nori’s awful manners and retreated to a corner to let more sleepy dwarves pass in and out of his kitchen.

 

“I’ll just take a small plate,” he said to Bombur, accepting his eggs with a grateful smile and mumbled, “Thank you.”

 

Breakfast passed in a whirlwind of cooking and eating in between packing and last minute discussions, but when Bilbo saw them headed for the door at last, once again leaving a kitchen full of filthy dishes, he rushed to block their departure with his arms over his chest.

 

“I saw your cleaning skills last night when you were tormenting me with that awful song about breaking all my crockery and blunting all my silverware,” he said, haughty glare fit to rival cousin Lobelia’s in a bad mood. “If you think for one instant I’m letting you out this door before you clean up that horrendous mess you made this morning, you’ve got another think coming.” Thorin’s glare hardly fazed him. “I’ve agreed to help you all on this quest of yours, but even if I knew it would be done in a week, no respectable hobbit would dare leave a kitchen full of dirty dishes to moulder, and I daresay this quest will take quite a bit longer than that, what with all sorts of mountains and forests and Mahal only knows what kind of creatures in between you and your goal.”

 

Bilbo only realized his slip of the tongue when several sets of bushy dwarven eyebrows raised to their hairlines. Even so, none of them said anything about his invoking the dwarven name for Aulë, and Bilbo’s words had the intended effect of a dozen apologetic dwarves tramping back towards the kitchen to wash up. All in all, though the effort took some time and made them late on starting out, they hardly ended up any later than the first time around, when poor Bilbo had been left with all the washing up and not even seen the letter left on the mantelpiece till Gandalf came all the way back to yell at him.

 

Bilbo even remembered to bring his handkerchief this time.


	3. With Foes Ahead

Traveling with a company of dwarves turned out every bit as miserable as Bilbo recalled from the first go-round. The sunny days swiftly burned his soft skin, and the occasional rain left the air muggy and stifling, attracting all manner of flies and biting insects to feast upon the company.

Several days out, Bilbo was silently cursing his younger self for not doing more walking. He was horribly out of shape, puffing and wheezing at even the smallest hills, and his legs were going to fall right off the next time he had to disembark from his pony’s back.

“Are you alright?” Bofur asked, falling back beside him as he let out a particularly pathetic wheeze.

“M’fine,” Bilbo said, waving his hand in Bofur’s direction.

The sun was beating down on their heads after a light rainfall, and humidity was rising off the grass beneath the ponies’ feet. Only a great effort of will kept Bilbo from face-planting right into his pony’s mane and giving the lie to his words.

“Have you ever journeyed out of your Shire before?” Bofur asked.

Technically, they had only passed the eastern edges of the Shire the previous day, but it was still much further than Bilbo had ever been during his first fiftieth year. “I’ve read a lot of maps and heard a lot of stories,” Bilbo said. It wasn’t a false answer, but it wasn’t entirely true either.

Bofur smiled sympathetically. “I’d never been out of the Blue Mountains myself,” he said, catching Bilbo by surprise. This wasn’t something he had known about the miner, before. “Bifur and Bomber were at Azanulbizar in the battle that took the King’s grandfather, but I was young and in love with mining already, and stayed behind.”

This, Bilbo had known. “What brought you on this quest, then?” Bilbo asked, knowing the answer to this question too, but curious if Bofur would tell the Bilbo he’d only just met.

“I believe in our king,” Bofur said simply, staring up ahead where Thorin rode between Gandalf and Balin.

“He must be a good king, to have inspired such loyalty in his friends,” Bilbo said, for lack of any other answer. The hazy air and Bilbo’s exhaustion made Thorin almost shimmer up ahead, like a mirage.

“That he is, Master Hobbit,” Bofur said.

“Though some of our kinsfolk who were asked were bloody cowards and refused the quest,” Gloin said, swinging up on Bilbo’s other side to join the conversation.

Bofur peered around Bilbo from under his hat. “Just because some were too afraid of death to brave a dragon does not make them cowards, Gloin,” he said. Gloin scoffed.

“When my wee Gimli, not even as old as the King’s nephews, practically begged to come and had to be refused for his youth, what excuse do older dwarves have to say no?” Gloin’s voice fairly burst with pride for his son, and Bilbo smiled quietly to himself. There was no doubt, from Frodo’s stories, that Gimli was remarkable among any race. Hopefully another path would bring him into contact with his old friends if Bilbo was able to deal with the ring. Especially Legolas who, if Frodo was to be believed, had become nearly inseparable from the dwarf against all odds of their upbringing. It would be good to see bonds of love reforged between the races of elves and dwarves.

Bofur was shaking his head. “The naivety and bluster of youth cannot be compared to the more practical fear of those who have witnessed already the deaths of their kin at dragon fire and orcish blades.”

“The King’s lost more than all of us,” Gloin said, refusing to back down, “And he still knows his duty better than any of us as well.”

A cloud of mayflies stirred up by the ponies’ feet gave Bilbo an excuse to drop out of the middle of the argument. The two dwarves, deep in discussion, hardly seemed to notice. Though he agreed, mostly, with Bofur, that none should be forced on a quest as deadly as this, nor could they be blamed for a very reasonable fear, the conversation had left him feeling shaky and weak.

It would be so easy to turn around and go home, to leave death and danger for others. He had only so narrowly missed death the first time around, and even knowing the future didn’t stop goblin steel from separating one’s neck from one’s body, not when he planned this time to be in the thick of battle instead of knocked out like an idiot right at the start.

He was silent for the rest of the day’s journey.

Finally, as the sun set red over the trees in the east, Thorin called a halt to the day’s travel.

The party stumbled to a stop in a clearing next to a heavy copse. Bilbo practically fell from his pony’s back, only not faceplanting into the grass because of Bofur’s arms around him at the last moment.

“Thanks,” he said, face burning red.

“It’s no problem. I take it you’re not used to hard travel?”

“Not as much as I would like.”

“I can tell. You fell back a ways there, practically asleep on your pony I think. Why don’t you come revive yourself with some of Bombur’s stew? He’s the best cook in the whole of the Blue Mountains - could even make grass delicious, if it comes to that.”

Bilbo scrubbed some of the sleepiness from his eyes and accepted the offer, glancing around himself as he followed Bofur to the stewpot. Halfway there, he stopped in his tracks.

“Did ya fall asleep again, Master Baggins?” Bofur asked, turning around with a teasing grin.

“No,” Bilbo said, and offered nothing more to Bofur’s curious look.

He recognized this clearing. He’d been here a few times, always recognizing the site of his first near-death experience of the quest, when he’d tried to prove his worth as a burglar and nearly been eaten instead. There would be a fire just out of sight in those trees just north of camp, and three trolls all too eager to eat thirteen dwarves and a hobbit. They’d nearly all died the first time around, would have if not for the timely intervention of Gandalf; Bilbo had zero desire to repeat this particular experience. Three more living trolls in the world was hardly going to turn the tide of the quest.

But where were Fili and Kili?

He’d barely had the thought when a high scream range out from the trees.

“Oh, you idiots,” Bilbo mumbled, as the camp turned to chaos.

o0o

Heat weighed down Thorin’s shoulders as his pony trudged along, weeks into their journey but only days from Bilbo’s home.

The hobbit hardly spoke to any of the company, keeping to himself in the evenings at the edge of every camp. Thorin could hardly blame him for being intimidated; the little hobbit had never even been out of the Shire before, and now he was being dragged on a deadly adventure across all manner of wilderness all for the sake of someone else’s homeland. If not for how many times Bilbo had saved their lives, Thorin would have demanded a different fourteenth member for their company, even if he had to accept Gloin’s young son Gimli into the quest to keep Bilbo safe.

Even if that meant Bilbo would never have gotten to know Thorin, never become one of his closest friends and greatest regrets.

He had almost requested that Gandalf not find them a burglar anyway, but Bilbo was necessary, and he had already promised his people that he would get their homeland back or die trying. That promise meant more than one small hobbit, no matter how large that hobbit’s heart and courage had proven to be. Instead, he asked his followers (his friends, every one them his truest friends) to keep an eye on Bilbo.

“We should stop at Rivendell,” Gandalf said, appearing out of nowhere next to Thorin and nearly startling him off his pony.

“Elves,” Thorin scoffed. “I hate elves.”

If they had joined sooner, if they had spent their time trying to help Thorin's people instead of always treating them like thieves over a thousands of years old grudge and demanding gold they didn't need, gold that belonged to the _dwarves_ , perhaps the battle could have gone better. Perhaps they could have presented a united front from the start, and Fili and Kili could have lived. Thorin would ally with any elves, even Thranduil, Mahal curse him, if it meant that Fili and Kili lived.

But that elf would bleed Erebor dry before he consented to help dwarves, and then turn and stab them in the back.

Gandalf, unknowing of Thorin's dark thoughts, merely raised one bushy eyebrow at the irritable dwarf's brilliant argument. Knowing what the moon runes said already did not help Thorin, when admitting he already knew would rouse Gandalf’s suspicions, and possibly lead to the meddling old wizard changing things too much. There really was no good way to avoid the elves, but Thorin would live on salad for the rest of his life before he spent two weeks in the Rivendell again.

“We should stop soon,” Thorin said, oh so smoothly changing the subject.

Gandalf sighed, beard fluttering with the strength the disapproval he packed into the single gesture. "I shall go check the road ahead then, shall I?" he said, not waiting for Thorin's reply before urging his horse forwards. Thorin scowled at his back.

"Wizards," he muttered.

He dismounted from his pony after calling the rest of the party to a halt, sighing as his limbs creaked out a protest over the amount of riding he'd been doing lately. It was almost funny. He'd been sent back in time, and he still wasn't as young as he used to be.

"Bombur," he called, voice gruff as he stretched his back, "get some food going. Fili, Kili, see to it that the ponies are secured for the night." With that, he stomped off to the edge of camp, ready to be alone for a few hours.

His thoughts were edging with ash again, the battle only he remembered crowding out any other thoughts. He had to save Fili and Kili. He had to make sure Bilbo survived again, and that his home was once more reclaimed. He could not fail twice, but how he could succeed was a mystery. Thranduil's elves hated him and his kin, and Dain would not start moving until the mountain was claimed, he had made that clear enough when Thorin asked for his help before starting the accursed quest. Not to mention the gold sickness that would surely take him over again the moment he set foot inside the mountain.

He was but one small dwarf with sickness in his veins, and he could not do this alone. But he _must_ do this alone. He already asked so much of his companions, and some burdens were a King's alone to bear. The thought brought him little comfort.

"Are ye doing alright over here?" a voice asked, and Thorin startled, snuck up on for the second time in one day. Dwalin grinned at him, fully aware he'd caught Thorin unawares.

"I'm fine," Thorin bit out, and Dwalin raised one bushy, skeptical eyebrow. Thorin's resolve cracked. A King must bear some burdens alone, but he also needed trusted friends and advisors, and Dwalin had more than proved himself worthy of such a role many times over.

"You're right," Thorin said, forcing his unwilling tongue to shape the words. "I have been... troubled." Dwalin's gaze grew serious, and he clapped a steady hand on Thorin's shoulder.

"You can always talk to me," he said. Thorin had to look away, too grateful by far for the words, and unable to bear how vulnerable he felt in that moment.

He opened his mouth, took a breath to speak, and was interrupted by a terrible scream from the woods.

Instantly, Dwalin's hand was on the ax at his belt, his and Thorin's heads whipping toward the source of the noise. "What's going on?" Dwalin bellowed, as Thorin did a quick head count, followed by a silent curse at every last Valar.

Fili and Kili were gone, and Thorin was the greatest idiot ever to grace Middle Earth. Too caught up in memories and self-pity to pay attention to his surroundings, Thorin had stopped them right by the trolls like an utter fool.

"Where are Fili and Kili?" he cried out, causing brief pandemonium to erupt among the dwarves.

"They were tying the ponies up just past the tree line here," little Oin piped up to the north of camp.

"Bofur, stay with Bilbo and protect the camp," Thorin bellowed. "The rest of you, with me!" With that, he grabbed his ax into his hands and rushed towards the screams, Dwalin at his side and the rest of the company converging on his position from all sides.

The sight that met them when they broke through the trees into the clearing froze his blood in his veins. Three massive trolls, the same trolls Thorin had forgotten about like a blind fool, had Fili and Kili dangling from large, gray hands over a bubbling stewpot. The rest of the company rushed past Thorin, attacking the trolls haphazardly, and Thorin realized with horror that he'd made the same mistake as the first time around. He'd failed to make any plan, and though they were doing slightly better, having all attacked at once this time, his companions were still being picked off one by one, stuffed into sacks and hurled against trees with sickening thumps.

Thorin was standing, frozen in his horror, when a small stone came whizzing overhead, nailing the troll holding Nori by one leg right in the eye. The troll roared, dropping Nori, and finally went down as Nori used his newfound freedom to slash his clever knives across the troll's ankles. Dori swung his ax in a terrifyingly accurate arc, and finally, one troll was down for good.

The remaining two seemed enraged by their friend's defeat. One slammed a large, unforgiving hand down at Nori's head, who was still distracted cheering for his brother's defeat of the first monster. Dori screamed at him to watch out, and Thorin finally threw himself forward, knocking Nori out of the way just in time for the hand to crush his leg. He screamed in pain, adrenaline singing through his veins as he twisted around to sink his ax into the arm that was attempting to lift him.

Another stone whizzed out of the trees, taking out another troll eye, and Thorin was left gasping on the ground as the troll roared and covered his eye. The third troll couldn't help him, too busy fending off Ori, Nori, and Dori together, so he did not see Dwalin's swinging ax behind him till too late. More stones came from the trees, providing a fatal distraction to the two remaining trolls, and finally they went down, unmoving.

From the trees, unscathed and wide-eyed in lingering terror, stepped Bilbo Baggins, a makeshift sling in his fist.

"That could have gone better," he said, and Thorin couldn't help the snort of laughter that was immediately followed by a groan of pain.

"Indeed it could have, Master Hobbit," he said, head sagging back against the ground as Dwalin darted over to smother him in concerned pestering. He leg would take days at least to heal – there was no way they could brave the mountain passes with Thorin, at least, lame in one leg, and the others in who knew what states of injury.

It seemed the wizard was going to get his way. Rivendell was the only place close enough where they could stay long enough to recover before continuing their journey.

Bloody, tree-loving, _cursed_ elves. Wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woops, that chapter took a lot longer than I meant it to! Apologies for the wait; hopefully the next one won't be quite as long.
> 
> Thank you so much, too, to everyone who's been leaving comments! Everyone makes me positively gleeful, and I love you all <3


	4. Unto the Timeless Halls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that this took so long! I said before I write at the pace of glaciers and make snails look speedy, but it is true. I have another chapter finally, though, and the next one has been half written for months, so maybe it won't take as long (I also do tend to write rather non-linearly).

The Company encountered no more trouble on their weary way to Rivendell, a stroke of luck for which Thorin was eternally grateful. The journey took four more days of travel, their pace slowed by the injuries inflicted by the trolls. Gandalf led them, gray beard wagging back and forth as he studied the land so as not to miss the hidden entrance to Elrond's valley. Even with the knowledge of his past life, Thorin himself would have missed the almost insignificant dip in the grassy plains through which the valley could be found.

The tired dwarves followed Gandalf down and around a curving stone path that appeared as soon as they entered the dip. Finally, as Thorin grew dizzy with the ever-turning path, the frilly elven home rose before them in all its overwrought glory. Thorin glared at the spindly archways and stick-like columns with loathing, but he could not deny the way his body ached for a proper bed.

Before the great gate marking the entrance to Elrond's realm, the Company was halted by a haughty group of elves, every one of them looking alike in their fine robes and dark, silken hair, and expressions of disdain for their visitors. None other than Elrond himself stood at their front, every bit as haughty as the rest. He stared down his nose at the ragged dwarves clustered behind Gandalf, pretending not to notice the muttered comments of his own entourage.

"What have you brought me, Mithrandir?" Elrond asked. He spoke to the Wizard right over the dwarves heads like the arrogant elf he was. Thorin stepped forward and cleared his throat, cutting off Gandalf's reply.

"We were passing through these lands on our way to the Misty Mountains when we were waylaid by trolls," he said, standing firm and holding his heritage and kingship around himself like a shield. "Gandalf assured us that you and your people could provide my companions and myself with a safe place to rest and recover our strength before braving the mountain roads. If you cannot treat us with civility, however, then we shall be on our way."

Behind him, Bilbo snorted. Thorin swore the Hobbit sounded amused.

The elves behind Elrond, on the other hand, were anything but.

"You come to us for aid and yet dare to make demands?" one pointy-eared tree hugger sneered. Thorin and his company bristled, but Elrond waved his companion down.

"They have every right to request respectful treatment," Elrond said, to Thorin's surprise. He inclined his head to meet the dwarf king's gaze. "Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. I am glad to open to my halls to yourself and your followers. I would be additionally honored if you would join myself and Mithrandir for dinner tonight."

Knowing exactly what would be discussed at dinner meant little when he could not share that information with anyone without arousing suspicion. "It is _my_ honor to accept your invitation," he said, meeting Elrond's eyes with his politest smile. He suspected it still looked rather strained, but the elf lord at least had the grace not to call him out.

"Excellent," Elrond replied. "That is settled then. I will have someone show you to a set of rooms." He turned away, once more ignoring the Company in spite of his words of but a moment ago. "Gandalf, would you join me for a drink in my study, so that we may discuss what brought you here?"

Thorin ground his teeth, but a glance back at his Company showed a wall of exhausted dwarves who did not deserve to have their rest further delayed by a fight he would not win. He stepped back among his company, conceding to Elrond's will, though his teeth ground together at the action.

He was a _king,_ , dammit. He would not act like a spoiled child, even if certain elven kings used their endless lifespans to never age at all.

The Company were shown to their rooms by a rather less hospitable elf than Elrond, one who refused to do more than glance at them with a frown before he swept off down the halls and expected them to practically sprint after his long-legged strides. Thorin only barely held his tongue at the crass behavior, and reminded himself that elves were elves and shouting at them rarely accomplished anything but a greater headache and a sore throat.

Most of the Company was too exhausted to care much, anyway. Fili, Kili, and Oin all collapsed on a pile on one bed as soon as they entered the set of rooms they'd been assigned to, not even bothering to remove their boots.

Thorin didn't miss the look of sneering disdain the youngest members of his Company received from their elven guide. He had a harder time biting his tongue at that look, tasting copper as he forcibly reigned in his temper. If he couldn't even handle a few of _Lord Elrond's_ subjects, then how would he ever hope to maintain a clear head at the end of his journey, when a clear head would be a matter of literal life and death, for him and his dearest kin? The thought kept his tongue in check, but barely.

"Someone will be sent to fetch you and your companions for dinner when evening falls," the elf said, turning to Thorin with only marginally less disgust. "Until then, feel free to, ah, make yourselves at home."

"An impossible task given the surroundings," Thorin said with as much civility as he could muster - which wasn't much - through clenched teeth. "But we appreciate the hospitality of Lord Elrond." He was sure the strain behind his smile was obvious to the elf, but he could not bring himself to care.

The elf departed after his words. Finally, Thorin was able to relax.

Dwalin and Balin had watched the interaction of their King and the tree hugger with wary eyes. He nodded to them, conveying his appreciation for their silent support with a look, and they set about joining the rest of the company in preparing for rest. There was some time before evening and dinner, and the injuries sustained during the skirmish with the trolls meant that they would be sticking around for several days. That left plenty of time for planning later, and resting now.

Getting Elrond to tell them about the moon letters should be the work of a moment, he thought, and then as soon as the company was healed they could leave. If all went to plan, they could avoid that horrid storm and the subsequent encounter with goblins easily enough. Not having to deal with losing all of their supplies and the following chase through the woods by evil things would be _immensely_ helpful to all their spirits.

o0o0o

In spite of Thorin's foreknowledge, it was irritating beyond belief to sit through dinner that evening surrounded by a bunch of sneering elves. The most he could say for the experience was that most of the elves looked just as uncomfortable to be sharing space with his dwarves. If they wanted to act like they were too good for the best dwarves Thorin knew, they deserved to feel uncomfortable about it.

"Are you settling in well here?" Elrond asked from beside him. The elf had been trying to draw Thorin into conversation for the whole meal, ignoring his glares and one-word answers with a sort of pig-headedness that he _almost_ admired. What he did not admire was the smirk on Lord Elrond's face as he snorted in reply.

"These halls can't hold a candle to good dwarvish stonework," he said, letting his natural instinct towards verbosity free at last. "But they're nice enough for your airy elvish taste." He swallowed down a few choice phrases to describe the Elven home, settling instead upon, "My kin are grateful for your hospitality." He resisted the urge to grind his teeth as he spoke the words. They were, after all, grateful for a place to rest. And it was, after all, Thorin's own fault they had been injured by the trolls he forgot about in the first place.

"We would appreciate your thoughts on the map, as well," Gandalf interjected from Elrond's other side. Thorin felt his smile become more wooden. Of course, Gandalf had already spoken of the map to Elrond. Why should he wait for Thorin's presence to wave a dwarven secret around an elf lord's face.

"Indeed," Elrond said, radiating placid, smug satisfaction. "I wish to invite you both back to my study after dinner to discuss the map. I believe it is currently in your possession, master dwarf?"

Thorin bristled and resisted the urge to clutch at the item in question in his pocket. "It is," he bit out. "And you may _look_ at it, but in _my possession_ is where it shall remain. It is an honor I hope you understand the weight of, to be allowed in on a secret so dear to myself and my kinsfolk."

"Of course," Elrond said, with another of his infuriating smiles and a slight nod of his head. "I am pleased and honored to be brought in to your confidence."

_You need the support of elves if you want your kin to survive,_ Thorin reminded himself desperately. The woodland king would be much harder to speak pleasantly to than this elf who had already offered them aid and comfort in his home. If he could not control himself around Elrond when he already knew the map's secrets, Thranduil would be a lost cause. He refused to allow the future to tread the same path as the past. 

"I am grateful for your help," he said, forcing the smile back onto his own face even as he felt like a broken record. "My kin thank you for your services."

o0o0o

Imladris was at once a comfort and a torment for Bilbo. 

Comfort, because Imladris was his second home. These halls had welcomed him and offered a cozy, kind place to grow old with his books and his poetry. Torment, because each time he caught the eyes of an old friend, all that greeted him was the face of a stranger.

Though his determination to spend the same weeks in these beautiful, comforting old halls as the first time around had not changed, each day brought further sorrow as he met well-known faces for the first time. The dwarves watched their elven hosts with wariness, but Bilbo avoided them for more personal reasons. It hurt too much, after exchanging mild and impersonal pleasantries with elves he knew with the intimacy of years of companionship, to keep trying to rebuild old bonds. Perhaps one day, if this mad quest succeeded and he was allowed a second old age, the memories would dull enough to remake them. Here now, they were too fresh and too painful to contend with overmuch.

This pain made it all the more bittersweet that he could not cut their visit short. The ring was of paramount importance, as much as it aggrieved him further to acknowledge. Thorin and Fili and Kili were dear to him, precious memories of lives cut short too soon and too brutally, but Erebor had thrived even after their loss. If he failed to get the ring, the whole world might fall into ruin as the shadow of Mordor swept over them all.

It had been such a random, lucky chance that he had even acquired it in the first place. To deviate even slightly from his memories would be utter foolishness. Even if they brought an entire army into the caverns saturated with goblins, there was no guarantee the ring would be found. Even less guarantee it would be found by anyone who could resist it's pull.

Therefore, it was an unpleasant shock when Thorin announced that the company would be departing the very next day, not even a week after their arrival.

"What?" Bilbo squeaked from the back of the group, unable to hold his tongue. "Shouldn't we stay here longer?" He looked around at the sour faces of his dwarves, and desperation made his tongue loose. "The elves have been very kind to us so far, and it's very comfortable here, and wouldn't it be better to have more rest before we leave?"

Thorin seemed almost apologetic when he silenced the grumbling of the other dwarves and answered Bilbo. "You knew this quest would be difficult and full of discomfort when you joined it, Master Baggins," he said, though his normally gruff voice was shockingly gentle. "We all agreed that our quest is more important than comfort, but that does not many any are bound to stay if they do not wish. I would ask that you remain a member of this company, and join us tomorrow in our departure, but I will not force you."

Bilbo was not the only one to gape at the stoic dwarven king for his proclamation.

"I'm not backing out!" he said indignantly. "I simply did not think we needed to leave so soon."

"That is not your call to make, Master Hobbit," Thorin replied.

The rest of the evening passed in a flurry of packing and high spirits for everyone except Bilbo. The other dwarves took his solemn mood as a sign of his fondness for the "tree huggers," as they called the elves. Fili and Kili teased him mercilessly for his poor taste, and Bilbo would not have tarnished their happiness even if he could have told them of the ring without disaster.

Thorin, however, he would have happily strangled. A suspicion that had been growing in his heart for some time flared brighter whenever he looked at the exiled dwarf king.

Now that he had no choice but to deviate from the script he knew, the chance of things getting very messy had grown astronomically.

o0o0o

Sure enough, the dwarves departed Imladris the following dawn. Bilbo lagged behind on his pony, watching with longing in his heart as the Last Homely House disappeared behind rolling hills and once more was hidden from view. It took a whole day's travel to reach the foot of the mountains. By the time they had climbed the first steep slopes and set up camp on a sheltered ledge, Bilbo had only managed to come up with a single half-decent plan to obtain the ring.

Over the course of the next few days, as the company climbed deeper into the mountain passes, no other ideas presented themselves.

"Oh, Bilbo Baggins, how do you get yourself into these situations?" he muttered to himself in the darkness over their camp, on the third night high up a mountain pass. He clutched his pack close, thinking of the rope and food and water tucked in to the bag. Hopefully, it would be enough to carry him through however many days it took to find the blasted ring.

He glanced around at the sleeping dwarves and slipped away, quiet as only a hobbit could be.

He had a world to save. Hopefully, the dwarves would forgive him for abandoning them, when he rejoined them on the other side of the mountains.

If he did not succeed here, far more than their quest for Erabor would be doomed.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea when I'll update this. I'm posting on anon because I'm shy and this makes me feel slightly more like I have leeway to just keep writing even when anxiety says everything I write is terrible. Comments and kudos are great, but I'm not going to hold the story hostage for them or anything. This is honestly just an exercise for myself because I wanted this story to exist, and I'm very much hoping that I actually finish it. I've got the entire thing 100% plotted out and bits and pieces written, but I'm also quite possibly the slowest writer in the universe and editing as I go.


End file.
